


The Walls Themselves

by Roca



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen, I hope it makes some kind of sense, This idea just popped into my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roca/pseuds/Roca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warehouse has many caretakers. Some go unnoticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls Themselves

There is a scuffle, there is a scratching, and then there is silence.

Behind a strangely-shaped glass vase a small form hunches in on itself, darts a quick glance around, and stretches out over the edge of the shelf to test the air. It is stale and smells of ozone, with a faint trace of some unknowable spice that burns the nose in a strangely pleasant way.

But something is missing. Something is not right.

Letting out a distressed puff of a sigh, the dust-colored rat scurries to the nearest crossbar and clambers down to the floor. She stops to sniff again, speculatively, and then dashes off to the end of the row of shelves. Each is packed with a thousand treasures, a world of wonders – but she knows all too well the most important rule of the Warehouse:  don’t touch (don’t even look, if you can help it) until you know it’s safe.

These strange baubles don’t have the same effect on them as they do on the humans, not really. Where a human is scorched, a rat is singed. Where a human is broken, a rat is bruised. Where a human is forced to spend the rest of their life reciting Robert Frost’s collected works in Slovakian, a rat is only muddled for a day or two. It’s the differences between human and rodent minds, perhaps, or else their bodies.

They do have casualties. Sometimes singes get infected. Sometimes bruises rupture and bleed. Sometimes muddled means “chews their own foot off.” But it’s worth it to live here, where it is warm and dry and safe. And there’s something else, a special feeling that sends happy shivers through their bodies and ruffles their fur whenever they stop and realize that this is their home.

There is a similarly deep feeling settling within her bones right now, but it is one of urgency rather than contentment. It drives her past the next row, then the next, then what seems to be a dilapidated carousel with chipped wooden horses and peeling paint. Some instinct pushes her onward, and it touches all the others as well. Soon a white rat is beside her, keeping pace as they turn into an aisle cluttered with ancient-looking instruments. A speckled buck joins them as they slip behind an antique mandolin, and soon there are more than a dozen of them streaming across the concrete, as varied in size and color as a living patchwork quilt.

Together, they make one last turn and shuffle to a halt in the middle of the hall. Before them lies a single woolen mitten, dirty from falling to the floor and felted with age. Cautiously, they approach. She is the first to nose tentatively at it, and when that fails to produce any effect, the rest of them grow bolder. After a few more moments of nudging and sniffing, four of them sink their teeth into it and begin to drag it back to its place on the shelf.

She registers the chill that spreads through her almost as quickly as the bitter taste of lanolin, but she doesn’t let go. It hurts, but it’s bearable. One of her companions utters a muffled squeak of complaint, but they all continue to pull and tug, passing the burden along the chain they have formed with practiced ease until the same silent calling that directed them to this aisle whispers that the mitten goes _there_.

It is a relief to be rid of the disgusting thing and the creeping cold it generates, but she is happier still to feel the slight pulse of gratitude that seems to come from the walls themselves. She shudders a little bit from pride and rises up to scent the air again.

There, along with the ozone and spice, she can smell apples. All is well.

**Author's Note:**

> So, how was that for my first foray into Warehouse 13 fanfiction? This was just a totally random thought I had the other day at work and wanted to put into words. I based this story off of a couple of main thoughts, if you're wondering what the heck the point of all this was.   
> 1\. Who/what have we seen in the Warehouse that hadn't specifically been invited/broken in? That's right, nobody. Except for the rats. The Warehouse is sealed up real tight, and only those that the agents (or the Warehouse itself) want in are allowed.  
> 2\. The Warehouse is a constantly moving and shifting entity. Also, our lovable agents are clumsy as anything. If they had to come running every time a Warehouse growth spurt or harmless artifact shenanigans knocked Napoleon's butt plug from the shelf, they'd never have enough time to save the world. It makes sense that the Warehouse would have a backup team to deal with minor issues.   
> 3\. Rats are smart. And cute. And I love them.   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed - and that this made some sort of strange sense.


End file.
